


sound and fury

by theevilcleavage



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:47:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theevilcleavage/pseuds/theevilcleavage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sherlock is a waltz, then Joan Watson is something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sound and fury

Moriarty is the mastermind, Irene the painter.

But Jamie has always fancied herself a musician.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Sherlock is a waltz, and Jamie knows exactly how to lead him.

Irene enjoyed the dance, the simple accompaniment of triplets, but Jamie finds it tiresome. 

Joan is not so predictable. She bounces around like the Death Waltz, full of random movement and impossible to master.

Jamie has been studying her for months now and has not drawn a single conclusion.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

They meet in a café not too far from the Brownstone. It is charming and inexpensive, the kind of place Joan seems to enjoy. 

It is Jamie who speaks first, menu laid out in front of her.

“Does Sherlock know you’re meeting with me?”

“Yes.”

Jamie’s lips quirk upward.

“And how does he feel about it?”

Joan sighs heavily, setting down her cup of coffee. Two sugars, no cream. 

“Why am I here?”

There is music playing, low and distracting. Jamie’s eyes flicker around the café to find the source: an old neon jukebox.

“We haven’t spoken in several weeks,” she says, tearing her eyes away from the machine. “I’ve missed your company.”

“I don’t want to hear that.”

Jamie wonders what Joan would like to hear instead. Perhaps Mozart? Tchaikovsky? Rachmaninoff? She’s never thought to ask. 

“You’re interesting,” Jamie tells her. “I want to know you.” 

“That’s…” Joan sighs and rubs tiredly at her face. “I can’t.”

“Because I’m a criminal?”

“No,” Joan says, and she reaches under the table for her purse. “Because whatever this is…it’s freaking me out.”

A half rest between them, and then Jamie pushes forward.

“Well, uncertainty only makes this game of ours more interesting.”

“This isn’t a game,” Joan snaps, all random fortes and misplaced rhythms. 

“No,” Jamie agrees. “It isn’t.”

What’s between them is much more intricate. A prelude, set in a dark, minor key. Something by Chopin that creeps in at the start and builds to an unexpected finish.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Why are you staring at me?”

Joan is tangled in white hotel sheets, head resting against a soft, thin pillow. Jamie presses kisses to her skin, lingering after each one.

“Because you’re a masterpiece,” she whispers, reaching for Joan’s hand and interlacing their fingers. 

“Like a painting?”

Jamie laughs, pressing a quick kiss to Joan’s cheek.

“No, darling. A symphony.”  
………………………………………………………………………………………………...

“What are you doing here?”

Joan is barefoot in her night clothes, feet curling against the wet concrete. It is nearly midnight and the night’s storm is only worsening.

Jamie takes a step forward, blinking against the rain.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Well, now you’ve seen me.” 

Joan turns to head inside, but Jamie’s fingers close gently around her wrist.

“Wait.”

A beat. 

Joan turns around slowly, an abrupt shift to piano that leaves Jamie’s mind reeling.

“Leave me alone,” she begs (begs, as though Jamie has any control over what’s been going on between them). “Please.” And in Joan’s short breaths afterwards, Jamie hears the pitter patter of staccato.

“No,” Jamie says. “I can’t do that.”

When she steps forward, Joan doesn’t move away, glued to the spot under Jamie’s stare. And then Jamie closes the space between them, kissing Joan hard on the mouth.

It only takes a moment before Joan responds, her hands moving to Jamie’s cheeks and then tangling roughly in her hair.

It is a long time before they pull apart, both wet and breathing hard. Jamie’s lips are red and bruised and her hair is matted to her forehead.

“Do you want this, Joan?”

“I-”

The answer comes more in Joan’s expression than it does in her response, and the rain drips miserably down her cheeks.

“I hate you,” Joan whispers, and it elicits a small, humorless smile from Jamie.

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. Right now I do.”

It is strange, what happens next. The way they fall together. The way Joan buries her face in Jamie’s neck and cries. 

And right away the soundtrack in Jamie’s mind changes, adjusts to this new development. And Jamie feels her heart contract, a rest in an otherwise endless stream of sound.

Joan clings to her, both of them drenched in this outpour of dissonance. Until underneath, a slow, soft melody fights its way out, pulsing between them. 

“Okay,” Joan murmurs, breath warming Jamie’s neck. “Okay.”

It isn’t any sort of commitment, only a whispered word in the middle of a thunderstorm, but it pierces easily through the music.

A tentative yes. But tentative is fine. Jamie is happy to take things slow.

She appreciates a good crescendo.


End file.
